by SE Hall
My breath catches and holds as I wait for Reagan’s reaction; I hadn’t gotten to the Bryce-part yet.
“Nice to meet you.” She smiles, shaking Jocelyn’s hand with natural warmth in her voice and smile, a far better actress than the adorably jealous Ms. Craig. “I’m Stormy Dillard, an old friend of Bryce’s.”
Tangled web, practice to deceive, yada yada—just when I thought the sticky, woven thread was wrapping around my every airway, no way to unwrap myself from its fictitious confines, Reagan proves my gut correct once again.
“Would you ladies like to join us?” she asks them.
“Oh, we wouldn’t want to—” Jocelyn starts to politely decline with a dismissive toss of her hand as Alyssa screams, “Yes!” over her.
Reagan and Alyssa are quick to scramble, dragging over chairs as I lean back in my seat, doing nothing to hide my head-to-toe assessment of one awkwardly, reddening, fidgeting-from-foot-to-foot Jocelyn. I’m enjoying watching her squirm, even though I’ve got a whole different scenario of her wriggling and writhing underneath me playing out in my head at the same time.
She’s radiant, no other way to explain it, no word yet created to accurately capture it. While her seemingly shy, unconfident aura draws in any man, hidden deep, perhaps not even self-realized, lies a brilliant, sophisticated woman who knows exactly what she wants, and either doesn’t know how or is afraid to go get it. The combination is heady and alluring, taking my every effort to remind myself of my true agenda and remain seated. I’m highly trained for multiple types of warfare, most specialized, obviously, in intellectual, but this is one battle I could see myself easily losing.
“Anyone want another drink? I’m going that way,” Alyssa asks. I accept and hand her some cash, seeing as the waitress still hasn’t come back around, while Reagan and Jocelyn both nod, the latter hesitantly lowering herself into the seat next to me.
I keep one ear on the conversation Reagan strikes up with her, and do a quick glance at her camouflaged and perfect reaction when Jocelyn tells her the company we’ll be working at together. That connection, I know she made, along with my new name. The dots are being connected for her, for me, while I sit back and furtively appreciate the soft pink of fluster on her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her increased swallows, and the way she wets her lips after every response or laugh. Her nipples are pebbled beautifully hard, all but visible through that top, and her pulse drums wildly in that tan, lean throat of hers.
Alyssa finally returns, exasperated from the long lines and fight through the horde, collapsing in her chair with a loud huff. “Drink up, people. I was almost trampled for those!” We all do the obligatory shots, on which mine, I almost choke, when Alyssa eyes me with assertive seduction and asks me to dance.
If and when I stand up, my hard-on will undoubtedly be obvious, loud and proud. The only way it’s worth the disclosure is if Jocelyn’s the one in my arms, pressed to my body. “Thank you, but I just asked Jocelyn to dance,” I lie, shameful but I hope polite, to Alyssa while soliciting Jocelyn with my eyes, to which she smiles and nods readily.
So, even though it’s a very bad idea, a form of self-torture really, because I can’t pursue anything with my boss—as a fictitious person, no less—I stand and offer her my hand, bulging erection be damned. She places her small, velvety smooth one in mine, and something forbidden that I will not allow to take charge shifts inside me.
“I JUST ASKED JOCELYN TO DANCE.”
Bryce’s words bounce around in my ears for a minute, a cluttered mess of bewitching promise that my brain tries to make sense of. Once it all computes, my face lights up as my head nods faster than a bobble-head doll, and I can only hope I don’t look as overeager as I feel. Then, he’s on his feet, hand outstretched towards me, where I place mine, allowing him to lead me onto the dance floor.
The liquor from earlier joined by the two beers I guzzled tackle any threatening fears of ‘Monday morning awkwardness’, and whatever remaining apprehension there might be is thrown out the second he grabs hold of my hips, jerking me flush against him. Instantly, our bodies meld together as one, in perfect rhythm with the “Summer” techno-mix resonating throughout the club. Forgetting about everything else—my anger towards Hunter or my father, the look of shock on the faces of Alyssa, and whoever Stormy Smurfette is to him; shit, I can barely remember my own name under his touch—I focus all of my attention on the deliciously sexy man in front of me that has somehow walked into my life at precisely the perfect time, vowing to let loose and enjoy myself for once.
Our moves compliment each other’s like yin and yang; he pulls where I push, I give when he takes. I try my best not to cross over the line from flirty to inappropriate, but damn if his strong shoulders and taut stomach muscles flexing under my roaming hands don’t make me want to rip his shirt off right now. When he turns me forcefully, with no permission needed, the steel rod now pressed against my ass, which is grinding lightly against his crotch, leaves no room for doubt; he’s on the same page. Fuuuucccckkkk!
Before I realize it, the song unfortunately ends. Wrapping an arm around my waist, maneuvering me as his own to face him, Bryce tugs me to his chest and leans into my ear, his breath hot and heavy. Instead of asking me to stay for one more dance like I was expecting…hoping, he hoarsely whispers, “Killin’ me, boss lady. I gotta get out of here.” His soft lips gently brush my neck, sending a wave of goose bumps across my skin as every nerve ending within me stands on high alert. He draws back, a shimmer of something I can’t quite read twinkling in his eyes, as he grabs my hand and guides our return to the duo we’d left alone.
Alyssa and Stormy appear to be getting along great, doubled over in laughter when we arrive at the table. They look up at us as we approach, their inquisitive gazes fixed on our interlaced hands, which he quickly releases once he notices the focus of their attention.
“Hey, uh…Stormy, didn’t you say you needed to be at work early tomorrow?” Bryce asks his…friend? I’m not quite sure of their relationship, but I’m guessing it’s not a romantic one, based on the way we danced together mere minutes ago.
Confusion briefly sweeps over her face, but she recovers quickly, leaping off her barstool and nodding vigorously. “Yeah, you’re right. We better get going,” she turns to us, smiling warmly. “It was nice meeting you both. Be safe on your way home.”
Still whirring from the exchange on the dance floor, I look over at Bryce, confused over his sudden change of temperament. He must recognize the uncertainty on my face, because he reaches out and squeezes my hand, giving me some reassurance I didn’t dream whatever it was that passed between us. “I’ll see you on Monday, Jocelyn.”
The minute Lys and I get to my place, she crashes face-first on the couch fully dressed, with heels too, while I opt for a quick shower. I refuse to sleep with sticky, dried sweat layered on my skin, as much as I don’t want to clean the areas of my body that came in contact with him. Once I’m nice and clean, I tiptoe into my room from the bathroom, careful not to wake my friend, and drop the towel on the floor, relishing the slight draft of cool air on my naked flesh that remains heated with buzzing desire. I lie back on my bed, unable to stop thinking about what transpired at the club tonight with Bryce.
My eyes close as I reminisce about the hardness of his chiseled body ironed flat against mine, the warmth of his breath dancing in my ear, and the smoothness of his lips skimming my neck. I run a hand over my bare flesh, gasping as I graze over my nipples. Unconsciously, I spread my legs slightly, barely giving it a thought as I seek to ease the ache between my legs. I smile as my fingers dance gracefully over my neatly trimmed sweet spot, moaning aloud as I feel how wet I am.
Opening my eyes, I realize I can see myself in the mirror directly across from the foot of the bed. It’s almost as if I’m watching someone else, a gorgeous, naked, horny girl, not the normally sexually-reserved girl I’ve always been. Hitching myself up the bed a little and positioning the pillows so I have a better view of
my reflection, I open my legs wider as I continue to explore, knees bent and spread apart, and the soles of my feet flat on the mattress. Teasingly, I brush my yearning sex with gentle, curious fingertips, the feeling already unbelievable, heightened dramatically by the fact I’m watching myself.
My right hand moves to my firm breasts, and I stroke from one pebbled nipple to the other. Licking my pinky, I trace the dark perimeter of each before pinching and twisting the peaks, my frame arching with pleasure as I fantasize it’s Bryce’s caress scorching against my damp skin. Wetting my fingers more so with my tongue, my hand again sneaks down my body and rubs even lower, skimming delicately over my slit. I can see in the mirror, my touch curling between my legs, and I’m transfixed on how swollen my lips have become so quickly.
Applying more pressure, I spread open my outer lips, exposing the hardened pearl lying just beneath, begging to be touched. My other hand nimbly finds its way to join the first, traipsing along my abdomen, stopping momentarily to taunt my clit with a few flicks before pressing against my soft, pink flesh. The delectable feeling of my core being penetrated by a finger follows as I push it deeper, curling the tip upward before dragging it out of my tight slit. Purring with ecstasy, another one joins the first as I begin the process again, continually repeating it over and over again. The pace quickens, and before long, I can hear the wetness of my pussy clinging to my fingers as they slide in and out, thrusting them deeper inside of me each time.
I need more.
I want Bryce, damn it.
My eyes focus on my hand and I watch in fascination as I finger-fuck myself harder and faster than I ever have before. My other hand roams up my stomach to again find my breasts, mauling one then the other, tweaking the stiff nipples, rolling them between thumb and index finger.
I lift my head, my focus engrossed with the lustful image reflecting back at me. “Oh fuck…oh fuck,” I whimper endlessly, sensing my orgasm building from deep inside.
The wanton woman in the mirror is a stranger, as unsure as I am of who or what is controlling these actions tonight, watching as I thrust my insistent fingers in and out of my throbbing core. My frame stiffens rigidly, freezing for a brief second as the orgasm claims me; a bubbling euphoria caresses my every nerve from head to toe as my pelvic muscles spasm and my hips buck wildly off the bed. Frantically, I turn my neck to bury my face in the pillow, hoping I muffle out the sensual sounds I can no longer contain, moans, grunts, and desperate pleas for Bryce falling from my lips like autumn leaves on a breezy day. Warm nectar begins to flow freely between my legs as I clamp my thighs together, trapping my hand between them, riding out the orgasm to its hilt.
Several deep breaths later—in through the nose, out through the mouth—I’m able to somewhat regulate the erratic beating of my heart and overexertion of my lungs, but still, nowhere near fully recovered from whatever just happened. During the seven years I’ve been having sex with Hunter, never once has he come even close to eliciting a physical or mental reaction from me like what I’m still delighting in, and now, I question if I’ve ever really had an orgasm before…that—a raw, uninhibited release of every feminine longing and instinct trapped inside me for far too long.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror, my entirety flushed, nipples standing erect atop heaving breasts, my lower lips radiantly pink and swollen, glistening with the blissful remnants of my Bryce-induced fantasy. If this is my body’s response to simply dancing with him fully clothed, I can only imagine how the man would unfurl me under his touch if ever we find ourselves in the bedroom together.
I not only imagine it, but I plan to find out.
No more denying myself what I want.
Bryce Griggs will be mine.
“YOU NEED ME TO DRIVE?” Reagan asks once we’re standing outside of Bump. The humored tone in which she asks is why I glance over at her, where I find a sarcastic grin spread ear-to-ear, matching the infliction in her voice.
“No, why would I?” My brows furrow in curious confusion.
She points, eyes wide and animated. “Just figured with that bad boy, there’d be no blood left in your brain.” I don’t even bother trailing my gaze to follow her finger; I’m abundantly aware I have a raging hard-on, but I sure do appreciate her pointing it out…literally. “Not that I blame you, she’s gorgeous. And you two dancing?” She fans herself dramatically. “Your sex together would send the Tommy and Pamela Ann tape straight to the cartoon shelf! I may have a slight female boner from watching it.”
“You done?” I ask, refusing the twitch at the corner of my mouth to grow into a grin.
“I guess,” she shrugs, “or I can keep going. Either is fine with me.” She’s a cutie, especially now that some of her nervous edge is gone. I’m surprised it wasn’t her that captivated Devon. “So, what now?”
“Now we talk brass tacks, but not here, my apartment, and yes, I’ll drive. Will your car be okay here?”
“It’s not. I cabbed it.”
With a tip of my head in the direction I parked, I smile. “Perfect, let’s go.”
“So, you and my brother,” I decide to do a little payback ribbing of my own once we’re loaded in my truck and traveling down the highway, “how’d he know about the mole on your thigh?”
“He loved it,” she sighs wistfully. As she stares out her window, her mood shifts abruptly from playful to solemn. “He kissed it at least twice every time we had sex.”
I cough and maybe swerve a bit at how nonchalantly she put it out there. I figured, of course, but…
“Why’d he tell you?” she turns to me and asks, not in anger, but a bit quiet and serene.
“We were brothers, best friends,” I explain; memories of our regular phone calls and excessive texting flood my mind. “He told me lots of stuff about you, all respectful and complimentary.”
“But that, in particular,” she leans in, breath baited as she awaits my response, “how’d that come up?” Her reminiscent anticipation hangs in the air; she wants to relive him, know what he thought of her deep down when she wasn’t listening. How I’m sure of what a woman I’ve only just met wants, you got me, but her need to reconnect with Devon on any level is palpable. He’d want her to have it, so I give it.
“I asked him what you looked like, about your personality, things like that. Once he got started, he couldn’t say enough good things about you.” I glance over at her and smile. “I think the ‘cutest little mole’ part may have been a slip,” I chuckle, “but he thought the world of you, Reagan. Plus, you told me you guys slept together, not him. He never dishonored you in any way.”
“Where in the hell are you going?” She changes gears, deflection perhaps. “We’re so off-course. I knew I should’ve driven.”
“I’m making sure we’re not followed, just a precaution.”
A few more turns and I pull in the back parking lot to my apartment building, eyes keen on all cars, bushes, and shadowed corners of the building. “Okay, we’re clear. Come on.” I undo my seatbelt and open my door.
Remaining silent, as she has the last ten minutes, her face is sullen as she follows me, sticking to my side. Only once we’re inside my apartment with the door bolted shut behind us do I hear her exhale.
“You’re safe here, Reagan. No entries have been tampered with; relax, I’ve got you.”
“How do you know that?”
I point out to her the riggings set above the door and window. “Untouched, we’re good. We can talk freely inside here, no bugs. Have a seat. You want something to drink?”
“Ice water?” It’s more a question, her arms wrapped around herself as she glances about the place impassively, slowly making her way to the couch.
“Here ya go.” I return and hand over the drink, then join her on the other end of the couch, turning in towards her. “Okay, we need to go over some things. Devon mentioned your insane memory, which is good, because Reagan, you can never, ever write anything down or store it in your phone. Understand?”
<
br /> She nods, eyeing me over the glass as she sips slowly.
“When you’re untrained, or not used to a certain way of thinking, things that seem like no big deal are what will trip you up, so I need you aware, over-suspicious of everything, but not paranoid. Does that make sense?” I hope not to overwhelm her, so I temper my voice, making it even and calm, but heavy with emphasis.
“Cautious, but not schitzo—got it.”
“Perfect.” I smile. “First thing, I need you—your help. I don’t want you to move anywhere but in here with me.”
She chokes on the swallow she’s just taken, her eyes bulging out at me. “Wh-what?” she rasps, beating on her chest a couple times.
“Move in here with me. You’ll be safe and can help me. You can have the bedroom; I’ll take the couch. Please?”
Thinking it over, she chews her lip, eyes narrowed into skeptic slits. “Help you with what, exactly?”
I take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose and eyes shut, then open them anew and start. “You already know I’m starting where Devon worked on Monday. They hired and know me as Bryce Griggs. You cannot call me Graham; in fact, not even when we’re alone here. Start using Bryce now so it becomes habit, then natural. I’ve also got to get into your apartment and take anything I think I might need before it dawns on my mother, who has no idea I’m here,” I stress that part, conveying to her the importance, “to come gather his things. Then, there’s the clinic where he volunteered. I can’t work and volunteer at the same places he did…too obvious.” I stop, the hint implied.
Or so I thought. The longer she stays eerily silent, eyes glossed over and staring at me, I realize I missed the mark. “Reagan, I need you to volunteer at the trial clinic, get in there, be my eyes and ears, and see what you can find out.”